


Save

by TheLittleLady



Series: Squeaks (AU) [3]
Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: F/M, Feels, Loss, Not a Happy Story, Prequel, Short, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 11:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15581157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleLady/pseuds/TheLittleLady
Summary: Humans are fallable. Robots live... well, going on current evidence, 122 years at the very least.If the woman you loved was dying, wouldn't you try to do something if you could?Is it possible to save a human life?A short story based on some of the fringe characters in the SPG universe, also loosely connected to the works in the Squeaks story (very loosely).





	Save

**Author's Note:**

> A little piece I wrote about the relationship between Peter VI and a lady in my imagination. 
> 
> I took a little inspiration from a nightmare in the opening pages of the SPG comic, otherwise this sits in the same AU as the Squeaks stories; which means some kind of conscious-control via blue matter, and also links to an abandoned copper arm Rachel sees lying on a side table.
> 
> This is based in approx 2013, around the time of Peter's blue matter accident, so features Male Rabbit, also The Spine and Hatchworth, but not as central roles.

_2012_

Her name was Berna, and she held up the stars.

Bernadette was her full name, but Peter VI only called her that once, and she’d playfully clipped him for it.

That was the day she kissed him.

 

She was tall and slender, pale, with brown wavy hair and huge almond brown eyes. Her beauty was effortless. Her glamour could survive three-day-old mascara, and often did. She could surpass all others in a bin bag, though she preferred jeans and a cardigan.

 

And there was a warmth to her smile that drew everyone around her. It lit her up. Peter, like most people, helplessly loved her.

 

For some reason he couldn't fathom, she loved him, too.

 

***

 

_2013_

“For God's sake Annie, let me _in_ there!”

 

“Berna!” Annie Walter had to bodily push her away from the door, tears streaming. They were both sobbing already.

 

“Berna please-”

 

“-Let me in! What if this is the last chance-”

 

“-If his father won't let _me_ see him, Berna, we don't want to see.”

 

Berna went for the door again, but hands gripped her arms by the elbows, and did not let go.

 

“Let _go,_ Spine!” Berna screamed at the immovable robot behind her. He stared straight ahead, but he chewed the inside of a silicone lip.

 

“Spine,” Berna begged, “go in and see him? You're worried too, just go in and tell me he'll be OK.”

 

“I'm sorry, Miss Berna,” he replied, without looking her in the eye, “if Walter Senior says we can't see him, then that's what we'll do.”

 

“But he… What if…” Berna couldn't finish the sentence.

 

_What if we lose Peter._

 

Annie looked up at her with red-rimmed eyes. “If there is no other chance,” she whispered, “ _then_ we'll see him.”

 

And then she pulled away, and they all watched the door and waited.

 

“My _baby,_ ” Annie whimpered.

 

***

 

Berna sat by the hospital bed in silent shock. It took a while for her to realise she was stroking the back of Peter's hand, over and over. He hadn't gained consciousness, and so now Berna and his parents took shifts by his bedside.

 

His face was covered by a thin sheet. Not bandaged, there was no blood. But his father had seen whatever was underneath, and told Berna that it wasn't fair on Peter for them all to see before he woke up.

 

Berna had to clear her throat, and set herself into a coughing fit.

As it subsided, Peter spoke.

 

“Why is there a sheet on my face?”

 

“Pe-Peter!” she spluttered, and grasped his hand, “oh, thank God! I thought - I was so worried…”

 

“My face feels weird,” Peter said simply. Berna gripped his hand tighter. She didn't want to have to tell him. But she was the only one here.

 

“You've had an accident,” she managed. “There was an explosion…”

 

***

 

_Days later_

 

Peter looked up at Berna, who was tight-lipped. He could see her through his new mahogany mask. She hated the mask, he knew, but she would never say. She could never hurt him like that.

 

“I hate that mask,” she said.

 

Alright, so he was still learning.

 

“I know. But it's better than the alternative.”

 

“You mean your face,” Berna said flatly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Peter, it can't be that bad…”

 

He didn't answer for a moment.

He had looked at himself in the mirror only briefly, and still woke from nightmares in a cold sweat. He hadn't shown his face to anyone since.

 

“You'd be surprised.”

 

“Not even for a kiss?” Berna offered him a cheeky smile.

 

Argh.

 

“Not even,” he said, but without conviction.

 

Berna’s head tipped to one side with the same cocked smile. She cuddled up close, running a finger along his arm, and began to kiss her way up his neck, taking a gentle nibble on his ear. It was almost like she thought he wouldn't notice her hand creeping around the edge of the mask, although the feel of her lips against his skin was a more tantalisingly temptation than he'd care to admit.

 

He slapped her hand away, and pushed her onto the sofa, rolling on top and aiming skillful fingers to the weak spots under her ribs, and she began to squeal helpless giggles under the tickle attack.

 

“Let this be a lesson to you!” Peter laughed, and lowered his body onto hers, “You touch the mask, I get to tickle you.”

 

And then his body was pressed against hers, and all he wanted to do was kiss her. But he couldn't.

 

And then as her laughter subsided, she began to cough again.

 

***

 

_Months later_

She got used to the mask, eventually. Peter marvelled every day at her; why she loved him in the first place was beyond him. This lanky, sporadic, clumsy man with a weird sense of humor and a laugh like a kookaburra, rattling around the Manor with mechanical creations old enough to be his grandfather (twice over) but who still got into arguments about the toy fire truck.

But now he was all this, with a plank of wood for a face. And she was _still_ here.

 

Peter couldn't really stand parties, but for Berna he was making an exception. She insisted on buying a new dress.

 

“I need one,” she mused, from behind a heavy curtain in the changing room, “I've dropped a dress size. None of my other dresses fit right now.”

 

“You're working yourself too hard,” Peter called back, “you shouldn't be losing weight this fast just from working.”

 

He resisted the temptation to tell her there were shadows under her eyes, too. Peter wasn't dumb enough to tell a woman like Berna she looked tired. But her days were long, and she refused to admit she was running herself ragged, though she came home dragging her feet.

She pulled back the curtain to show him the dress, still pinning back her hair into an effortless updo. “Sounds like an excuse to eat more to me. What do you think?”

 

Berna ate like a horse already, and Peter nearly tucked his easily-kickable shins under his chair in case he'd thought that too loudly, and concentrated on the dress.

It was simple and black, or as close to black as blue could be without falling in. From spaghetti straps it clung to her all the way down to her ankles. In short, it left exactly the right amount to the imagination.

 

“It uh-” Peter garbled briefly. “If you want to skip the party, we could test it out better on the bedspread.”

 

Berna smirked with a raised eyebrow, “you probably wouldn't say that if you saw the price tag. Still, I'm taking it,” and with that she kissed the forehead of his mask and disappeared back behind the curtain.

 

“Oh no. How much is it?”

 

“It's my money. So I'm not telling you.”

 

Along with the rustling as she disrobed, Peter heard the unmistakable sound of stifled coughing. She'd had that cough for too long, now. She'd resist him, but it was time he dragged her to the doctor.

 

***

 

_Later_

The signs made sense, once they knew.

 

Her weight had been dripping off. She was more and more tired, though she refused to admit it. The gentle, but unmoving cough. And now, the soft silences in conversation when she stopped to catch her breath.

 

Berna wasn't stunned into speechlessness. Apparently there was very little which to which she had nothing to say. But Peter couldn't make the words come. He sat in a daze while she reeled off, about how OK she would be, how much fighting she had to do, the difference in survival rates these days.

 

Between every sentence, she paused for breath, just a moment too long.

 

***

 

Peter was alone in a lab on the upper floor, a rare occurrence these days. Berna’s parents had flown in and had taken her to treatment, leaving him to solitude.

 

Mostly, time to weep.

 

And then when that was done, he took the chance to process the robots. They all had repairs from Walter Workers on a fairly frequent basis, but it was worth him looking over them now and then for larger fixes and potential improvements.

 

He was hardly thinking all through The Spine's work, his hands moving with his mind in a blank hum. It was strangely soothing to just… not think for a while. He just had apologise profusely when he absent-mindedly operated the spine extension system while he was lying on his back, causing The Spine to launch alarmingly quickly a foot off the table.

 

The Spine was quiet, tactful, respectfully so, in fear of upsetting Peter, in a way that Rabbit was not.

 

He remained quiet on the table, for a few moments, lying on his back with his hands tucked behind his head, watching Peter steadily, unblinking. He made the tiniest motor noises as his eyes followed the movement of Peter's head as he worked on Rabbit's open chassis.

 

“So Berna’s dying,” he said, with much the same tone as a comment on the sports.

 

Peter fumbled his spanner, and the metallic clatter bounced about the room as the tool fell into the bottom of Rabbit's chest.

 

“She's getting treatment,” he responded with a measured tone.

 

Not confirming or denying. He couldn't deny it, and he didn't want to confirm it. How could he? Whenever his robots broke, he fixed them. But with Berna… He wasn't used to being so powerless. She was sick, and there wasn't a thing he could do but watch. When she was broken, there was nothing to fix.

 

“Th-th-that’s just buying time, ain't it?”

 

“We don't know,” Peter lied, “she might get better.”

 

Rabbit didn't answer that, but stared at Peter a moment longer. Mercifully, he seemed to drop the subject for the moment, and let Peter continue working in quiet. He began musing idly again how Rabbit's chassis structure seemed oddly unsuited to the masculine shape of the metal case around it, but after a while Rabbit's voice cut again into his reverie.

 

“It’s always makes us sad when our humans die,” he said, but now his eyes were pointed up to the ceiling. He spoke softly, like he wasn't really talking to Peter at all. “S-s-sometimes I wish you were robuts too.” He paused thoughtfully, “but then there wouldn't be babies. ‘n babies are cute.”

 

_Sometimes I wish you were robots too…_

 

The idea sparked in Peter's mind like a firecracker. Bright, beautiful, and dangerous.

 

***

 

_A few days passed…_

Peter eventually became aware that someone had said his name several times now.

 

“Mm?”

 

“I said, Berna’s parents are going. You should come and see them off.”

 

His mother's words passed in through one ear and right out the other. His mind was far too focused on the task at hand.

 

“Peter Walter! You come downstairs _right_ now!” The voice was still his mom’s, but the tone was that of furious mothers everywhere, which could make even the worst dictator tuck his tail between his legs. It was the sort of voice which dragged him to the door by his legs, bypassing his brain.

 

He left behind a single, exquisitely crafted copper arm.

 

***

 

“No.”

 

“Please, Berna. It won't hurt.”

 

“Tough. I said no.”

 

She was sat up in bed, arms crossed over her chest. Her arms had lost their muscle tone. Her long brown hair was gone. Her eyes had not lost the fire.

 

Peter had created the whole torso now, of a majestic copper robot. He'd been working without rest to get it right. The arms moved seamlessly and elegantly in every direction. But, he noticed, they were a little bulkier than Berna's were now.

 

He had tried to explain his plan to her, though it didn't sound as appealing out loud as he had hoped.

 

If Berna's body was failing her now, he could make her a new one. He could save her.

 

And she said no, instantly. He continued building, knowing that when he showed her his progress she would understand. She only needed time. If she would let him take a cast of her face, he could make a replica.

 

“I'm not sitting here with a face covered in plaster,” she paused for a moment, “with tubes up my nose when I can't breath to start with,” another pause, “so that you can make a damn statue to remember me by.”

 

“It's not to _remember_ you, it _will_ be you,” Peter explained again, a hand rested on her leg, “I want to make sure it's accurate as possible so it won't feel too strange for you.”

 

“Not strange at all,” Berna scoffed, “just the same, except that I'll be made of metal, can't eat and can never go near water again. Oh, and _it won't be me._ For goodness sake, Peter, you can't just sum up someone's brain like that, press save and put it in a different body. It would never work."

 

“Can't you just humor me this once? Bernie, I won't ask any more of you,” he pleaded.

 

Her face slowly collapsed into defeat, and she sat back against her pillow. “You won't drop it until I let you.” A slow breath. “Be grateful I have no eyebrows for the plaster to stick to. But,” pause, “then maybe stay a while? It's been too long since I've seen you.”

 

***

 

Peter was back at his workbench, surrounded by a thousand pieces of screwed up paper.

 

Peter was not a biologist. He was no good with flesh. And transferring Berna’s mind was a far greater challenge than creating a new automation.

 

The traditional thing was to transfer the brain, which Peter rejected outright. Firstly because he wasn't a biologist, and would get it wrong, secondly because if he was going to save Berna there seemed little point in leaving organic elements anyway, thirdly because the idea of taking a bone saw to her skull made him want to be sick.

 

Which meant uploading her mind digitally, storing all her memories as zeros and ones.

 

He had no clue how.

 

How could you transfer an entire human mind onto electronic memory? How did you make sure that every facet of personality made it across? Peter hated to think of it but… how long would it take to upload 27 years of Berna's life?

 

Did he have enough time?

 

As he read through a bemusing article on the transfer of memory between snails via injection, there came a humming noise from the door.

 

“I'm busy right now, Hatchy,” he called over his shoulder without turning round, “whatever it is, a Worker can take care of it.”

 

“That is where you are incorrect, Peter Walter. I have been sent to retrieve you.”

 

Peter didn't answer, getting lost in a paragraph with hopeful wording, and began scratching notes.

 

A series of clunking noises suggested Hatchworth’s approach, and the yellowish light of reflecting brass appeared across the paper before Peter screwed it up and threw it onto the rejection pile on the floor.

 

“Bernadette asked me to check if you were alright,” Hatchworth continued.

 

“That doesn't sound like her.”

 

“The exact wording was, ‘where's Peter? Has that damn new robot gone rogue and smacked him yet, or do I have to do that myself?’, but I attempted to interpret more helpfully.”

 

“That sounds like her.” Peter moved onto another article about post-mortem neuron stimulation.

 

“I believe the implication was that she wanted to see you.”

Hatchworth moved his weight uneasily.

 

“Sure. Tell her I'll be right along.”

 

When Peter didn't move, Hatchworth headed towards the door.

 

“Hatchy?”

 

“Yes, Peter?”

 

“How is she?”

 

A brief silence followed which Peter recognised as the sound the robots made when they talked to each other over the WiFi.

 

“She is unwell, Peter.”

 

Peter sighed heavily, and dropped his head onto the table.

 

_Time._

 

He needed more _time_.

 

***

 

Later Rabbit came for him. He wasn't sure when except ‘later’ - maybe the next day, maybe a few. Berna’s finished metal shell lay on the bench, only awaiting a way to transfer her mind, and Peter's head was full of failed ideas to get her there.

 

Peter wasn't sure when Rabbit arrived, and seemingly neither was Rabbit. By the time Peter looked up, he realised that Rabbit had been silently occupying the space before him for as long as his slightly addled brain could remember.

 

He was gazing down at the soft, feminine copper form, copper man watching copper woman. Robotic expressions were hard to read. He looked perhaps mournful. Jealous, almost, but that was predominantly the green oxide in his faceplates.

 

“How long’ve you been there, Rabbit?”

 

Rabbit blinked slowly, and looked up as if surprised to see him there.

 

“Berna's askin’ for you, Peter,” he said, ignoring the question, “been askin’ for a while.”

 

“How is she? Are you taking care of her?”

 

“Taking real good care, Peter, just like you asked. Spine's not left her in days. B-b-b-but she's wanting you.”

 

“How _is_ she?” he pressed.

 

Rabbit's face became unreadable.

 

“She wants to see you,” was all he said.

 

Peter recalled that Hatchworth had said the same. He hadn't moved since. He hadn't seen her. Didn't. Couldn't.

 

He needed longer than he had.

 

***

 

Time flickered. Peter didn't remember it passing, but every time he looked up the clock was far further round than the time before. The pile of papers on the floor thickened. With each failed idea, his urgency grew. Nothing was working. He vaguely recalled Hatchworth and Rabbit calling on him several times more.

 

Every time, he asked how Berna was.

 

Every time, they avoided answering the question.

 

But he held this passing moment in his hand, as it glowed like a tiny, flickering lantern of hope.

 

On the desk before him were two mice. One was white, with a tiny box strapped to its head that oozed the familiar glow of blue matter. The other was brass, with a core hidden from sight.

 

And they were moving simultaneously.

 

The brass mouse had no means of input that he had yet made. Its only contact was through the core it shared with the little white mouse.

 

Peter held his breath, hardly believing he could've begun to find a way. He drummed his fingers in front of the white mouse, who was nervously twitching his whiskers, and he darted backwards. Wheels squeaking under the sudden acceleration, the brass mouse spun away in the same direction.

 

Peter breathed again, and the relief overflowed behind his mask. As his shoulders began to shake, he took the mouse gently in his hand and stood to leave the room - there was so little time. He needed to get to Berna now before -

 

The doorway was barred by a solid silver figure. His eyes were burning a furious emerald, his arms outstretched.

 

A small figure in his arms, almost unrecognisable. Rake thin. Yellowed, papery skin. Short hair bristling from her scalp, dusty where it should've been deep mahogany. Plastic pipes were plugged into her like charging ports.

 

“Spine? Why is Berna out of bed?” He clung onto the little mouse defensively. The sight of Berna raked at his heart far worse than he thought it could. She was hardly even there anymore. He had so little time.

 

“You,” Berna’s head was laid against Spine's chest. She didn't lift it to look at him. She couldn't. “didn't.” Her eyes were staring somewhere a few feet ahead of her.

 

The chasm between words echoed in Peter's head. Every breath was a countdown, was robbing him of his chance to save her life.

 

“Come.” She finished, and closed her clouded eyes.

 

“I'm here now,” he soothed, and placed his hand on hers. “Spine, carry her back to her room. I've found something - I just need to pick up a couple of things…”

 

Berna’s eyes flew open at that, with a barely tamed fury.

 

“No,” she said, eyes darting side to side in the space before her, “not now.”

 

“We have to,” Peter darted back to the table to pick up the brass mouse, and held up both mice in front of Berna, “just a little longer, we're so close. Look-”

 

“- she can't, Peter,” The Spine cut in. For the first time, Peter saw that Berna’s eyes were focused somewhere behind his head. She couldn't see him anymore.

 

“But - Berna, we still have time. I've found a way, you don't have to - you don't…”

 

“I know,” Berna managed, her eyes following his voice. “It's… hard to… accept. But…”

 

She lifted a hand, hardly an inch, and paused there. Peter gave her his hand, and she held it. Not tight, but she held it.

 

“I'm… scared.”

 

“I know. But you don't have to be. If I can stop this in time -”

 

“-and if you can't?” The Spine locked gazes with him, “Berna’s been calling for you for _weeks_ , Peter. What if this idea of yours doesn't work? It's just an idea. Is this what you want for Berna? To leave her with me when she runs out of time?”

 

“Of _course_ not. But to miss the chance-”

 

Berna squeezed his hand, closing her eyes. And she didn't breathe.

 

After a few terrible seconds, her chest rose again.

 

“No time.”

 

Peter looked to the copper woman lying dormant on the bench, then to Berna's face. If hope had been a single hair, it had already been stretched taught.

 

It broke.

 

There was an ugly clatter as Peter let the brass mouse drop to the floor. The white mouse had crawled up onto his shoulder and let out a squeal of distress when its brass counterpart hit the floor. It jumped and scurried away, while brass wheels spun uselessly in the air.

 

Peter opened his mouth to answer, but couldn't. What more was there to say? He felt Berna’s heartbeat flicker against his fingertips.

 

He nodded miserably, and walked with The Spine.

 

***

 

_Days later_

 

It took a long time for Peter to find the courage to walk back into the lab. The copper woman lying perfectly still on the table. The ideas strewn all over the floor. The brass mouse, wheels still spinning as the escaped mouse ran somewhere about the Manor. The plaster cast, like a death mask split open on the desk.

 

But he had to come back. Even if he never used the room again, he had to remove what was in here, or its presence would haunt him.

 

He'd had the strangest dreams, when he'd been able to sleep again. He danced with a woman dressed in white, with flowing hair and a kind smile. Sometimes he thought she was Berna, sometimes his mother. Sometimes she shone like the moon, and other times she seemed to melt like paint.

 

He couldn't look at the robot's face. It was easier to remove his mask and hook it over the beautiful metallic head.

 

He took up a welder, and painfully got back to work undoing everything he had done. Too late.

 

Components had to be recycled where he could, and so he built up a pile of copper in the corner. But then Rabbit suffered a major malfunction. He left a copper arm, fingers delicately curled inwards, on a bench against the wall.

 

He grieved, on his own time.

 

*****


End file.
